


'did you just go throw up?'

by nymeriahale



Series: prompt fills [31]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriahale/pseuds/nymeriahale
Summary: “Fuck,” George hisses, then coughs over the small puddle of bile he’s just vomited up.“Georgie?” a voice calls - Owen’s voice, the worst possible voice. “Fuck, I’ll go get -”“No,” George protests. If Owen gets a coach they’ll think he can’t play at the weekend, and his dad’s coming out, he needs to play. “No, I’m fine, just pushed it a bit hard,” he claims, forcing himself to standing.
Series: prompt fills [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/396019
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	'did you just go throw up?'

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: 'Could you do prompt 104 ['Did you just go throw up?'], with George going to training whilst ill without informing anyone :)' (I literally just realised I never actually used that line, so if we could all pretend not to notice that I'd appreciate it /o\\)
> 
> Set in juniors.
> 
> This is a work of fiction and as such nothing is to be considered implied or insinuated about real life rugby players.

“Fuck,” George hisses, then coughs over the small puddle of bile he’s just vomited up.

“Georgie?” a voice calls - Owen’s voice, the worst possible voice. “Fuck, I’ll go get -”

“No,” George protests. If Owen gets a coach they’ll think he can’t play at the weekend, and his dad’s coming out, he needs to play. “No, I’m fine, just pushed it a bit hard,” he claims, forcing himself to standing.

George barely manages to make eye contact with Owen before he’s swaying, and the next thing he knows he’s held safe against Owen’s solid body.

“Okay?” Owen asks, face lined with concern.

George softens, in the face of that. “Maybe not,” he admits.

And this is why Owen was the worst one to find him - he can’t lie to Owen, doesn’t want to, and Owen won’t be easily dissuaded from talking to the coaches if he’s worried about George’s health. But George has to try. “Don’t tell the coaches?” he asks.

“Georgie -” Owen bites his lip. “You’re ill.”

George shakes his head fiercely. “It’s just food poisoning or something, it’ll pass,” he claims, pushing off Owen and managing to keep his feet this time. “See?” he says.

Owen doesn’t look convinced.

“My dad’s coming out this weekend, Owen,” George reminds him. “I want to play.”

Owen is still frowning something fierce. “If you’re still like this you won’t be able to,” he tells George bluntly.

“Got through training didn’t I?” George grins at Owen, a little smug - he is proud of that, that he’d managed, hadn’t thought he would at the start of the session.

“And look where it got you!” Owen doesn’t seem impressed.

George sighs. “I just don’t want them to write me off too early. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Owen bites his lip, thinking hard. “Right,” he nods, after a moment. “I won’t tell the coaches if you tell me if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow, so I can keep an eye on you, _and_ -” he looks at George seriously “- if you spend the rest of the day in our room, in bed. You can tell the coaches you’ve got a headache, or I can, something short term - but don’t push yourself, not if it’s making you feel worse.”

Once again, George can’t resist the concern in Owen’s face. He nods acceptance. “Can you maybe -” George swallows his pride - it’s just Owen. “Could you help me to the locker room?” he asks. “Just an arm around my shoulder, or whatever, nothing obvious,” he insists, when Owen steps forward at once. “I might have overdone it.”

“You think?” Owen mutters, scowling something fierce. 

But he does as George asks, helps him to the locker rooms discretely then plays buffer on the coach, stops anyone bothering him. George naps, a little, and Owen even wakes him without anyone noticing.

George walks to their room under his own power, though it doesn’t stop Owen hovering like he might collapse at any minute. George thinks he should probably feel smothered, annoyed that Owen is assuming he’s weak, but he _does_ feel weak, and it’s - it’s good to know that Owen cares, he can admit, if only to himself. 

“Get in bed,” Owen instructs, the instant the door falls shut.

“You’ll have to buy me dinner first,” George teases, hoping to cover the way his eyes had snapped to Owen at those words.

Owen just looks at him, unimpressed. “I’ll bring you food up,” he tells George. “Let the coaches know you’re - light sensitive, or whatever, like a migraine.” He turns to leave.

“Owen,” George calls, as he reaches the door.

“Do you need something?” Owen asks.

George bites his lip, shaking his head. “No, I just - thank you, Owen,” he says, sincere.

Owen smiles. “Any time,” he promises, voice gentle.

He leaves and George throws himself on the bed in a fit of drama. If he’d known it’d make Owen speak to him like that, make him act so attentive, he’d’ve faked illness long ago, not waited for a real one to strike. As it is George feels too bad, his guard too low, to avoid reading into it the way he so desperately wants to, the way he dreams about. Lads have been sick on tour before and Owen has mocked them along with the rest of the boys - but not him. With him Owen has been - protective, and so careful. It’s probably because he’s young, George reminds himself, the baby of the squad. But, a hopeful part of his mind murmurs, Owen has never treated him differently because of his age before, has always been right at George’s side backing him when he’s had to call lads out for being patronising.

George flops onto his back, kicks his shoes off. He’s too tired to think about it now, he decides firmly. Nothing can come of it, anyway.

He slips into sleep, wakes up when Owen returns with food.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Owen says quietly. He puts the food on George’s bedside table, perches on the edge of his bed. “How are you feeling?” Owen asks.

“Okay,” George grunts, blinking as he assesses himself. “Better,” he decides.

“Good,” Owen smiles softly. He reaches forwards, stops himself.

George watches, still half asleep, as resolution hardens Owen’s face, and he reaches out to push George’s hair off his forehead.

George’s eyes fall shut at the gentle touch, Owen’s fingers pushing through his hair, his palm resting for a moment on George’s forehead.

“You don’t feel hot,” Owen murmurs, brushing through George’s fringe again before retracting his hand.

George opens his eyes to find Owen blushing, shifting in his perch next to George. “No? I told you it’d pass,” he smiles at Owen.

“It’ll pass quicker if you rest,” Owen tells George, looking at him seriously.

George rolls his eyes. “I already promised,” he reminds him.

“Right,” Owen looks at George, bites his lip. “Right, well I nicked you some food that should last, raided the vending machines - don’t let on to the coaches though!”

“Owen, you didn’t have to,” George tells him.

“Least I could do,” Owen shrugs. “I’ll leave you alone now, yeah? Let you rest.”

“You don’t have to go,” George tells him, hurriedly. 

“Nah, I won’t bother you,” Owen insists, standing.

“I feel like shit, and I - I don’t want to be alone,” George bites his lip. That was more honest than he’d meant to be, but it’s hard to filter, even if he is feeling better. “I’ll be bored stiff with no one to talk to all evening,” he tries to rescue. 

“D’you want me to call someone for you?” Owen offers immediately. “Joe, your mum?”

“I could call them,” George scowls, the first time Owen has overstepped into patronising the whole day.

“Right, sorry,” Owen bites his lip, looking guilty.

“I don’t want my Dad hearing I’m feeling ill either, and you know my Mum would tell him. And I don’t want to talk to them, I just - I just want you,” George blurts - and that’s _way_ too honest. “I want you to stay.” George ducks his head, studies the sheets underneath him.

“Yeah?” Owen asks, in the same soft tone he’s used all afternoon. When George gathers his courage and looks at up at Owen he finds a matching expression. He doesn’t look mad, or weirded out by George’s words. “I can stay.”

“Please,” George murmurs, dropping Owen’s gaze.

“You only had to ask,” Owen says lightly.

And he stays, keeps George company, looks after him, until they both fall asleep. George feels drawn thin, run down, and it’s the best evening he’s had all camp.

**Author's Note:**

> No _thunder_ update this week, sorry all! Please accept a few prompt fills I did on tumblr back in May as an apology - we should be back to normal next week. As always I can be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) and both my [main](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com) and [rugby](http://fordfarrell.tumblr.com) tumblrs, and would love to hear from you either there or in the comments!


End file.
